


All I Want for Christmas is You

by PipMer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Fic-mas, Angst, Brotherly Love, Dancing, Established Relationship, Fluff, Friendship, Frottage, Gen, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Slash, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, proposal, sex in front of the fireplace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-05 01:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5356331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PipMer/pseuds/PipMer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>25 days of Holiday ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shopping for Gifts

**Author's Note:**

> These chapters are a series of ficlets I'm writing in response to the "25 Days of Fic-mas" tumblr prompts posted by hudders-and-hiddles. Each chapter is titled with that day's prompt, and is a standalone story unconnected to the other chapters. Most of them will be johnlock in some form, ranging from pre-slash to established relationship. Additional tags to be added along with subsequent chapters.
> 
> Unbeta'd and unbritpicked. Enjoy!

 

 

“Way to go, Watson, waiting until the last minute to get your shopping done,” John grumbled to himself as he slogged his way along the grimy pavement, overflowing plastic bags dangling from each hand. It was almost five o’clock in the evening, December 23. Darkness was just beginning to descend upon the streets of London; fairy lights started twinkling on in the windows of various shops. Small white flakes swirled in the air, just enough to hint at the possibility of a white Christmas for small children still young enough to believe in Christmas miracles.

 

At least John had everyone’s gift bought but one. That one, however, always gave him fits each and every year. Usually he had at least a few ideas that he could work with. This year, though, he had no clue what he was going to do. And time was fast running out. If he didn’t find something tonight, he didn’t know what he was going to do.

 

John sighed. The past year had been such a whirlwind with the divorce and working out custody issues for the kids that he had had no room in his mind for anything beyond getting through each day with minimal drama. When the dust had finally settled with all that, it was already mid-December, and John had still done not one iota of holiday planning.

 

Well, it wasn’t as if the man in question was particularly _difficult_ to shop for, really. His tastes were pretty straight-forward and obvious, and those that weren’t could be deduced pretty easily when you knew him as well as John did. Sherlock didn’t put much stock in gift-giving in general, given his disdain for all things sentimental. He’d be just as happy with a Moleskine notebook and set of pens as he would with a more personal gift. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even notice if John got him exactly nothing.

 

But the two of them seemed to be inching towards more intimate territory these past few weeks, something beyond friendship. No overtures had been made by either party as of yet - John’s divorce had just been finalized, after all. But there was something crackling in the air between them, unspoken and unacknowledged, and John wanted to choose a gift that reflected that. Somehow. Within the next two days. _Fuck._

 

The display window John was walking by suddenly lit up with fairy lights, causing him to reflexively turn his head to look. And what he saw made him stop dead in his tracks. And stare.

 

A mannequin stood poised, dressed in a long grey coat not unlike Sherlock’s beloved Belstaff. But that’s not what drew John’s eye. Draped around the neck was a lovely navy blue cashmere scarf - also not unlike Sherlock’s - and interwoven throughout were little yellow and black blobs with wings attached.

 

 _Oh my God,_ thought John. A scarf with bees. _With bees._ John stepped up to the window until his nose touched the glass and squinted. _Realistic bees to boot. Damn._

 

John stepped back, a wide grin splitting his face in two. There it was. A gift that was eminently practical, while at the same time personal enough without crossing the line into cloying sentimentality. As Sherlockian as they come.

  
Ten minutes later, John Watson walked out of the shop, both wallet and heart much lighter than before.


	2. Hot Cocoa

 

 

It was nights like these that reminded John of how lucky he was - how blessed, even. Cocooned within the warmth of 221b while the falling snow made Baker Street look like a Christmas card. Snuggled underneath Mrs Hudson’s homemade quilt in front of a roaring fire. Tree set up in the corner with blinking lights and a mound of wrapped gifts underneath. A consulting detective laid across the sofa with his curly mop in John’s lap. John’s right hand carded through those soft curls whilst his left reached toward the mug of hot cocoa sitting on the end table.

 

John pursed his lips and blew across the surface of the mug, causing the floating mini marshmallows to dip and bob. He closed his eyes and took a small sip - he could detect just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon. Not enough to overpower the taste buds, but enough to give the beverage its own unique flavour. John’s tongue swiped across his upper lip, licking off the excess chocolate. He sighed with pleasure, letting his head fall back to rest on the sofa cushions. Mrs Hudson certainly knew how to spoil her boys, and not just during the holiday season.

 

John let his thoughts meander as his fingers continued to pet his flatmate’s (friend’s? boyfriend’s? partner’s?) hair. Such a long way they’d come - all of them - these past two years. Mrs Hudson had expanded her property to include the house Mrs Turner had put up for sale when she retired and moved to Australia. Now her tenants also included the ‘married ones’, and a young couple with a small child. Greg had finally worked up the courage to ask Molly out, and now they were expecting twins who were due to arrive on Valentine’s Day. Harry and Clara had worked things out, and were now in the process of adopting a baby girl.

 

And John? He smiled to himself as he looked down on his sleeping lover with fond affection. John had ended up with the most amazing, best and wisest, most brilliant human being he had ever known. After all he had been through - what they had _both_ endured for each other’s sake - he had his reward. All that he would ever need and more.

 

The best hot cocoa he had ever tasted was just the icing on the cake of his very blessed life.


	3. Winter Wonderland

 

 

Sherlock blinked as the specimen on his slide blurred into an indistinct blob. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He looked around at his dimly lit surroundings, taking stock of his transport, just like John had taught him. Eyes: gritty and dry. Stomach: empty and rumbling. Shoulders: stiff and tense. Bum: sore and achy.    


What time was it? How long had he been down here? Sherlock took his phone out and glanced at the screen. His eyebrows rose in surprise. Nine a.m. He had been ensconced in the basement flat, where all his laboratory equipment was now kept, for a solid twelve hours. He frowned. Usually John came to check on him at some point. He felt a small twinge of resentment at the neglect, until he noticed a cup of tea sitting far enough away from his microscope while being close enough for him to reach from where he was sitting. Sherlock’s mouth quirked into a small smile. Doubtless it was cold by now, since John would have had to leave by 7:30 in order to make it to work by eight. Oh well. It was the thought that counted.   


Sherlock stood up and stretched, getting rid of the kinks in his shoulders and backside. He was suddenly very aware of how hungry and thirsty he was, as well as in need of stretching his legs. He double-checked his jacket pocket to make sure he had his wallet, and was just about to walk out the door when his phone pinged, alerting him to the fact that he had left it sitting on the table next to his microscope. Damn, he really needed to get some sleep soon.   


Sherlock retrieved his phone and opened up the message. A fond smile appeared on his face as he read.   


_ Don’t stay up too much longer, you need to be awake for the party tonight. Remember to pick up the ingredients for mulled wine, and while you’re at it scrounge up some sprigs of mistletoe too.  _ __   


Mistletoe. John, ever the romantic.   


First things first. Sherlock needed some sustenance in his belly.  Speedy’s  would be just the thing for that. He trudged up the steps to the ground floor, fatigue starting to settle in. An involuntary yawn escaped him as he retrieved his coat and scarf from the coat stand. Perhaps a little caffeine was in order; not too much, though, or he wouldn’t be able to sleep later.    


Sherlock opened the front door, expecting to be greeted by a drab overcast day that was so typical of London winters  -    


but instead found himself squinting against the bright  ** winter wonderland  ** that greeted him. He blinked in surprise as he took in the pristine, freshly fallen snow that blanketed the entire street. Sunlight reflected off the sparkling icicles hanging from the eaves of every building, and made the ice-caked tree branches shimmer like diamonds. The magical tableau took Sherlock’s breath away. Well, that and the bracing cold air.

  
  
All of a sudden, he wasn’t so tired anymore. Out of nowhere, a feeling of Christmas cheer grabbed hold of him and he felt a frisson of anticipation shiver up his spine. He hadn’t felt anything like this since he was six years old and still believed in Father Christmas. Filled with optimism, he allowed the thought that had been in the back of his mind for months now start to coalesce and form definitive shape. Hope usually proved to be a fragile thing for Sherlock, but at this moment he felt the universe align with his intentions. Of course John would say yes. Their lives were already intertwined to the point where they couldn’t tell where one of them stopped and the other began. They shared a home, a bed, an entire  _ life _ _._ Nothing would change; they were _ already  _ married in all but name.    


Buoyed by his positive thoughts, Sherlock felt newly  energised . Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind now.  Food could wait, too. A sense of urgency snapped at his heels as he sprang out the door onto the pavement, arm raised to beckon a taxi. If he hurried, he’d be able to have something picked out and engraved in time to present it to John on New Year’s Eve. John would like that, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t that be considered a romantic gesture on Sherlock’s part?

Sherlock settled into the back of the cab, head full of plans. All thoughts of food, sleep and mulled wine fled to the back of the mind palace to be replaced with  organising  the perfect proposal. He remained blissfully unaware of the picturesque scenery unfolding beyond his window. For once, romance and sentiment reigned in the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes.

When John Watson arrived home from the surgery at half past three, he found a consulting detective who was still dressed in his coat and scarf face-planted on the sofa, snores loud enough to shake the walls. On the kitchen table sat two plastic bags full of mistletoe. Nowhere to be found were the ingredients with which to make mulled wine, including the wine itself.   


John just rolled his eyes and chalked it up to Sherlock being Sherlock.


	4. Christmas Cards

 

  
  


Out of all the holiday chores and traditions that needed doing, this was the one he had always hated the most. Ever since he was ten years old and his mother had decided he was uniquely suited for the job, he had approached it with a grouchy attitude and ill grace.

  
  


For one thing, it was boring. For another, it was dreadfully tedious, having to come up with a different cliched greeting for each one. It was monotonous, dull, repetitious, a right snooze fest…. and necessary. So he might as well just suck it up and get on with it, so that he could move on to more enjoyable tasks.

  
  


John sighed, glaring at the stack of cards as if they had personally offended him. Every year this duty invariably fell to him, no matter where he was or who he was with, single or taken, it didn’t matter. Somehow, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, he was always the one in charge of filling out and sending Christmas cards. One year he had been dating a Jewish woman; he had thought that he would be spared that year, but nope. Turned out she expected him to prepare Hanukkah cards instead.

  
  


John thought that once he became involved with Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn’t have to worry about such things anymore. Sherlock didn’t seem to be the type to become enthusiastic over Christmas; it was a holiday steeped in sentiment, after all. The detective didn’t _mind_ the holiday, per se. He tolerated a Christmas tree, agreed to host a party, and participated in exchanging gifts, but that was about it. At least, that’s how he was before everything went to shit.

  
  


But after Mary was clapped in irons five years ago and vanished from their lives forever - in other words, ever since John and Sherlock had finally surrendered to their mutual pining and became a couple - Sherlock had become obsessed with experiencing holidays to the fullest. Every year since then, Baker Street had been the venue of Christmas dinner for their combined families and growing circle of friends. Sherlock insisted upon experiencing _everything_ pertaining to the holiday, every year. This ‘everything’ included: decorating the entire flat, hanging stockings by the fireplace, going Christmas carolling, even attending midnight mass on Christmas Eve.

  
  


And of course, included with all of this was the mass mailing of joint Christmas cards to all and sundry. In his infinite wisdom, Sherlock proclaimed that John would be in charge of that particular activity.

  
  


John had tried to argue, to no avail.

  
  


“Let me take over one of your duties instead,” John had pleaded. “I’ll gladly do anything else… prepare the goose, make the Christmas pudding, wrap everybody’s gifts except my own. _Anything_ , Sherlock. Why do _I_ have to be the one to fill out the Christmas cards?”

  
  


“Because _you’re_ the writer in this family, John,” Sherlock had replied. Immediately most of John’s ire had faded, because it was too busy being replaced by a warm sensation settling in his chest in response to Sherlock referring to the two of them as _family._ But then Sherlock had continued talking.

  
  


“Your penchant for purple prose and romanticism will be better served in such a medium, don’t you think? After all, flowery language and overused cliches are pretty much standard for holiday cards, are they not? Better to indulge yourself there and save your blog for more restrained and straightforward observations.”

  
  


And the ire returned full force. John scowled.

  
  


“That _purple prose_ is what provides our bread and butter, you know. We’d have no clients at all if it weren’t for that.”

  
  


“I have a blog,” Sherlock had mumbled. John hadn’t wanted to get into _that_ particular argument again, so he had thrown up his hands and did what he was told. Like he always did. Like he _still_ did.

  
  


When would he ever learn?

  
  


Sighing, John forced his thoughts back to the present.

  
  


Just looking at how many cards he was going to have to fill out made his head hurt. He could already feel the phantom twinges of his left hand cramping up. As the years rolled by, the pile seemed to increase exponentially. Mostly through association with Sherlock, although not all of them. Some of the detective’s clients turned into friends, earning their spot on the list. Henry Knight was just one example. Members of Sherlock’s Network, like Bill Wiggins, who had gone on to improve their lot in life and had stayed in touch. John had tried to weed some names out at one point, but he just couldn’t do it. Every name on the list was important to either him, Sherlock or both; he could not in good conscience erase anybody.

  
  


Why did the holidays have to be so exhausting? _God!_

  
  


John perked up at the sound of the front door slamming and familiar feet pounding up the steps. Sherlock had been gone since early this morning, attending to a fresh crime scene that had Scotland Yard stumped. John had begged off, having been out late the night before with Stamford indulging in their monthly pub night. Anticipation coiled in John’s belly as he waited to be dazzled by his flatmate’s magnificent brain by way of his ruby red lips and velvet baritone voice. God, that voice could turn him on just by rattling off recipe ingredients at lightning fast speed.

  
  


Sherlock swept into the flat like a Category 5 hurricane, hair wind-tousled and eyes fever-bright. When he caught sight of John, his eyes softened and his smile widened. He strode over and took John’s head between his large, skeleton-white hands. He bent his head and swallowed John’s ‘hello’ with a bruising, enthusiastic kiss that would have left John weak in the knees if he had been standing. John clutched at Sherlock’s arms, steadying himself as he returned Sherlock’s kiss with equal vigour. After several minutes of this, they pulled apart and Sherlock rubbed John’s nose with his own, an Eskimo kiss. They grinned at each other like lovestruck idiots.

  
  


Sherlock glanced down at the table. “Getting ready to go into battle, I see.”

  
  


John laughed. “Yeah, I’ve been putting it off for long enough, I guess. Need to take care of it so they arrive at their destinations before Christmas.”

  
  


Sherlock gave his shoulder a firm pat. “Carry on, soldier,” he declared. He took off his coat and hung it up before wandering into the kitchen for some tea, all the while narrating in a staccato rhythm the case he had just solved.

  
  


A soft smile played across John’s face as he turned back to begin his task, all the while listening to Sherlock hold court for an audience of one. Suddenly, a feeling of gratitude overwhelmed him, and he felt a bit ashamed for his earlier attitude. It was mostly due to Sherlock that John had in his life so many people who cared about him and whom he cared for in return. He may have lost a wife and the potential for having his own children, but in the end he had gained so much more.

 

They had created their own family, he and Sherlock, and those were the people for whom these Christmas cards were intended. It wasn’t meant to be a chore. It was meant to be an expression of appreciation for the connections he had managed to forge so far - an acknowledgement of his abundance of blessings.

  
  
Armed with this new perspective, John straightened his spine. He reached for a card and a pen, and let the comfort of the flat and Sherlock’s words wash over him as he wrote out the first of many love letters.


	5. Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So these are supposed to be short little ficlets, right? Well.... ummm.... this one got away from me a bit :D

 

 

 

_**Christmas, 1988** _

 

 

John sat at his desk in his attic bedroom, hunched over his anatomy book. He scribbled furiously in his notebook as he tried to tune out the voices floating up from downstairs. It became harder and harder to concentrate as the volume kept rising and the tone became more clipped and abusive. One raised voice was bad enough; three of them bordered on hellish.  

 

John scowled. If only Harry had kept her mouth shut until after the holidays. But no, she had to pick  _Christmas dinner_ to announce to everyone, including their very Catholic grandparents, that she was a lesbian and was dating the girl next door. Honestly, it was as if she went out of her way to cause as much trouble as possible for the most number of people, and to hell with the consequences.  

 

Lucky for John he could escape the drama by claiming he had to get a headstart on his studies for the upcoming term. If he wanted to get into medical school, he had to buckle down hard. The sooner he could get out of this godforsaken town, the better. His plan was to have the Army fund his education. Not only would he fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a doctor, but he would have the adventure and travel he had always craved as well. His future couldn’t start soon enough, as far as he was concerned.

 

He winced as Harry screamed, “You just don’t understand! I’m moving out and moving in with Clara,” followed by his father’s raspy, “Over my dead body!” The sound of glass shattering made his head jerk up. He was just about to run downstairs and come to his sister’s defense when he heard the front door slam, followed by the  stuttering engine of her rusted out Volkswagen. John let out a sigh of relief at the sound of crunching gravel followed by tyres peeling out of the driveway. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with any more of  _that_ drama tonight. Their father hadn’t yet stooped to physical abuse, but one never knew when he might step over that line.

 

John was grateful for the ensuing silence as he immersed himself in bone names, endocrine diseases, and fantasies of excitement and friendship in faraway lands.

 

 

_**Christmas, 2008** _

 

 

John threw his head back and roared with laughter, alcohol and the festive atmosphere decreasing his inhibitions to almost non-existent. The three of them were seated on the ground outside the officer’s tent, enjoying good whiskey and each other’s company. The night was clear and cold, the sky dense with stars. It was Christmas Eve in a remote area of the Afghanistan desert, far from England and far from any remaining family.

 

John had never felt more at home than he did at this moment.

 

John shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t believe it. No self-respecting woman would fall for that line.”

 

Moran grinned. “Self-respecting or not, she ended up going home with me at the end of the night.” He jerked his thumb towards the man sitting at his right. “Her twin sister, though, was stuck with _this_ ugly sod. Poor girl.”

 

The man in question ducked his head, blushing furiously. John shook his head and gave the man a fond smile. Say what you would about Major James Sholto, but “ugly” would never be a word to describe him. Quite frankly, James was one of the handsomest men John had ever laid eyes on. His face started to heat up as he remembered some of the more intimate moments between the two of them these past few months. He quickly quashed those thoughts as he forced his mind back to the present.

 

John took pity on James’ embarrassment and changed the subject. “I hear you’re taking the crows out soon?”

 

James gave John a grateful look and a small nod. “Yes. We’re supposed to go out the day after tomorrow. We don’t expect too much trouble; it should be a quick in and out. At least that’s what I’m hoping for.”

 

Moran grunted. “Nice way to spend Boxing Day,” he commented before taking another swig from the whiskey bottle.  

 

James shrugged. “Hopefully we’ll be finished and back before lunchtime, so they’ll have most of the day to themselves. My plan is to get a card game going for that night. Are you two in?”

 

“Poker?” Moran scoffed. “I’m  _always_  in, you know that. Be prepared to lose big, I won’t be holding anything back.”

 

“I’m in, too,” John replied. “I’ll mention it to the rest of my squadron; hopefully we can draw in quite a few.”

 

The three of them stayed up until the early hours of Christmas morning, laughter and alcohol flowing freely. In years to come, when John would revisit this night in his mind, he would think to himself that it would have been one of his fondest memories of his time in the army if it hadn’t been overshadowed by the tragedy to come. Because two days later, on Boxing Day, James Sholto would lead ten young men to their deaths and himself to injury and disfigurement.  

 

It would also signal the end of a budding romantic relationship.

  
  


_**Christmas, 2010** _

  
  


Leave it to Sherlock bloody Holmes to not only be a cockblocker, but ruin his holiday plans with Harry as well. Didn’t he deserve to  have a life outside of his flatmate, especially on Christmas Day? Sherlock might choose to not spend the day with his family (and with a family that included Mycroft, who could blame him?), but what about John? He barely got to spend time with his sister as it was, and he had had this planned for  _weeks.  
_

 

Christmas Eve had been off to a great start. The party preparations had gone off without a hitch (once Sherlock had stopped complaining and resigned himself to the fact that, yes, it was happening). He and Jeannette had reservations for dinner and tickets to the cinema. Snow had started gently falling, guaranteeing a rare white Christmas. All in all, the holiday had gotten off to a smashing start.

 

The first sign that things were going downhill was when Sherlock insulted Molly to the point of tears.  _That_ situation had been salvaged, just barely, when another spanner was thrown into John’s carefully constructed plans.

 

Irene Adler had gone and got herself killed.

 

The one woman who had ever stood a of chance of capturing Sherlock Holmes’ interest - _the_ Woman - was dead. The main focus of Sherlock’s attention and interest  these past several months was gone.   _Now_  where would Sherlock turn for distraction? John shuddered at the thought. He had accepted a cigarette from Mycroft; it was only a slippery slope away from that to a danger night.

 

Was this really his life? Stuck in the flat on Christmas Day, sitting in his ratty old chair with a ratty old paperback, no Christmas dinner and no one else to talk to? All so that he could keep watch over a flatmate who only wanted to compose sad songs and gaze longingly out the window?  

 

_Fucking_ Sherlock Holmes.

 

_**Christmas, 2012** _

 

 

Despite outward appearances, John felt like he was back to where had been during those hazy, surreal months that separated the Afghanistan years from the Sherlock years. He wasn’t sure what  _this_  interlude was separating. The Sherlock years from the Lonely years? The Adventure years from the Dull years? John wasn’t sure. All he really knew was that people kept telling him he looked good, that he seemed better. That he was obviously getting on with his life.

 

Ostensibly that was all true. After several months of unemployment John had landed a good position at a prospering surgery. He was back to being a doctor, and making decent money. He had a nice flat in a nice part of the city, convenient and not too pricey. An effort was made on his part to get together with Greg and other friends, so that he wasn’t quite as isolated as he had been right after coming home from Afghanistan. He didn’t have any physical injuries; his left hand didn’t tremble and his psychosomatic limp didn’t return.  

 

But if Sherlock were still here, he’d probably see in an instant that John was still far from okay. He might have a nice flat, but he lived there alone, disconnected for the most part from other people. He was taking to drinking hard liquor earlier and earlier in the day, and god knew that was not a good thing, not with his family history. His smiles - his true,  _genuine_ smiles - were few and far between. He felt the same hollow, empty sensation in his chest that he had felt when sitting in his bedsit in the weeks before he had met Sherlock. The same hopelessness and lack of purpose settled into his bones, no matter how often he tried to tell himself that a practicing doctor should feel the exact opposite.  

 

At least before there had been a relatively short period of time between his discharge and meeting Sherlock. His ennui never really got a chance to sink its teeth in very deeply before it was suddenly shaken off. This time, it felt like he had been in this fog forever; he honestly didn’t know how much longer he could hold on before the despair had its way with him.  

 

It was Christmas Day, and John had never felt less like celebrating. There was no tree; no decorations adorned the flat. A pile of unopened Christmas cards lay on the coffee table. John sat in his armchair with a tumbler of scotch in his hand, even though it wasn’t yet 10 a.m. He stared at an image of Sherlock,  frozen on the tv screen in mid-wink. Ever since Greg had brought him the DVD a couple of weeks ago, John hadn’t been able to stop playing it. It made him feel simultaneously giddy with joy and paralyzed with sadness. The two emotions tugged at him mercilessly, making it impossible to find any kind of peace.  John gave himself over to it, letting them carry him where they may.

 

He doubted it, but maybe by Christmas next year, he would have something to look forward to and celebrate.

  
  


**_Christmas, 2014_ **

  
  


John lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. He glanced at Mary, who was sleeping soundly beside him, and he silently resented her for it. Sherlock had just done a very stupid thing, for  _Mary_  of all people, and now he was probably looking at a life sentence in prison. Didn’t she feel any sort of regret about that? How could she sleep so peacefully knowing that at this very moment Sherlock was sitting in a jail cell in chains?

 

Once again, John felt like he had been abandoned. First, Sherlock had left him behind for two years without even a by your leave. Then he had  _actually_  died, by his wife’s own hand, no less. And now this. A separation more permanent than death, at least by Sherlock Holmes’ definition of the word. 

 

So many of John’s Christmases had progressed this way: a promising start that ended in disaster. Earlier today he had actually started to feel hopeful again about his marriage. Sherlock’s parents had welcomed them into their home with open arms, and he had let his defenses down as he let himself be immersed in the feeling of ‘comfort’ and ‘security’ and ‘home’. 

 

But like so many times before, it had all been an illusion. John Watson apparently wasn’t meant to  _belong_ anywhere. Sherlock had killed a man, and the connection he shared with John had been brutally severed. Now it was just John and Mary, and _fuck_  if the very thought didn’t make his stomach roil unpleasantly.  

 

John was heartily sick of it all. Sick of people, sick of disappointment, sick of his  _life_. Just once, couldn’t he have an uncomplicated Christmas where no one got hurt, no one died, and the holiday season ended with everyone safe, happy and together?

 

Apparently that was too much to ask.  

 

John rolled over onto his side, facing away from his wife. He probably wouldn’t be able to get to sleep, but he might as well get as much rest as he could anyway. Mycroft told him he would call as soon as he heard anything new. It might be first thing in the morning, or it might be days from now. Whatever happened, John needed to be prepared for an exhausting ordeal. Because he was not letting Sherlock go through this alone.

 

He owed him at least that much.

  
  


**_Christmas, Present Day_ **

  
  


John stood at the window overlooking Baker Street and took in the picturesque scene before him. Snow was gently falling, carpeting the street below with a soft fluffy blanket of white. The streetlamps were aglow, bathing the scene with lambent light. It was truly a silent night, the very picture of tranquility. Sherlock would probably proclaim it hateful, but John found it soothing. The day had been a hectic one, albeit enjoyable, and he was ready for a quiet night alone with his husband.

 

_Husband_. It had been two years, and he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it. Whatever had possessed the brilliant Sherlock Holmes to tie himself permanently to someone as ordinary as himself? John would never know, but he also wasn’t going to question it. He would happily reap the benefits for as long as Sherlock would have him. Which would hopefully be for a lifetime.

 

Two long arms snaked around his waist, pulling him back against a firm chest. John leaned into the embrace with a sigh. He laid his hands on top of Sherlock’s clasped ones, giving them a gentle squeeze.

 

“Stop that,” Sherlock mumbled as he pressed a kiss into John’s hair.  

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Thinking those thoughts.”

 

John smiled. “And what thoughts were those, oh great mind reader?”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “I don’t have to read minds to be able to read  _you_ , John. Let me just reassure you by telling you that you are the best and wisest man I have ever known, and I’ll live the rest of my days trying to deserve you. I’ll never reach that goal, but not for lack of trying.”

 

A lump formed in John’s throat and he felt prickling behind his eyes. He blinked the moisture away and swallowed hard, grateful he was facing away from Sherlock. He squeezed Sherlock’s hands in acknowledgement, too overcome to speak. Sherlock understood; he laid his chin on top of John’s head and joined him in watching the pedestrians in the street below.

 

John closed his eyes and let the feeling of contentment wash over him. How he loved this man, and his life here at Baker Street. All of the memories of past Christmases that had lacked in some way faded away as he melted into Sherlock’s embrace. This, right here, was all that he would ever need.

 

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock whispered, pressing a kiss behind John’s ear.  

 

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

 


	6. Naughty and Nice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I bumped the rating up for this chapter, just to be on the safe side. Sherlock getting turned on by a semi-naked, dancing John Watson. Enjoy!

 

 

Sherlock didn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the flat that afternoon, but it certainly wasn’t this. Although no one would hear him complaining, of course.  It was just … surprising, that’s all.

 

John stood in front of the cooker, stirring a concoction that was boiling away.  _Feliz Navidad_  was playing on the stereo (CD that John got as a Christmas gift last year from his sister), and John was shimmying in place to the music, sashaying his hips and wiggling his bum. He sang along to the lyrics, off-key but enthusiastic. This would not be all that noteworthy, except for one thing:

 

John was wearing a Santa hat, one of Mrs Hudson’s aprons  — and nothing else.

 

He wasn’t even wearing socks. He just stood there, back to Sherlock, unabashed and unashamed, flaunting his naked arse for anyone to see. The door hadn’t even been locked! Mrs Hudson could have walked in at any time and gotten an eyeful. And at her time of life! Lestrade had been known to barge in without knocking as well. This was utterly unacceptable.  _Nobody_  got to see John in the buff except for Sherlock. Eyes and hands off to everybody else.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. John yelped, jumping several inches and dropping the spoon with a clatter. He whirled around, hand on his chest and blushing furiously. The apron he wore was beige and proclaimed in bold black letters, “ **DON’T PISS OFF THE COOK.** ”

 

“Sherlock!” he squeaked. “I wasn’t expecting you back for another hour!”

 

“You,” Sherlock growled, pitching his voice low to the exact timbre that he knew never failed to arouse John, “have been very,  _very_  naughty.” He stalked forward slowly, like a panther hunting his prey. “ _Anybody_  could have walked in and seen you like this. What do you have to say for yourself, Dr Watson?”

 

Sherlock walked up to John until he was just inches away, looming over him like a deranged vulture. John recovered quickly, straightening his spine and playing along. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. He cupped Sherlock’s cheek and whispered in his ear.

 

“I may be naughty out here, but I plan on being very _nice_ to you later in the bedroom.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Hmmmm, is that so?” he drawled. He wrapped his arms around John, grabbed his arse and  _squeezed_. “Naughty  _and_  nice, is that it?”

 

John gasped. His head fell back and his eyes fluttered shut. The Santa hat slid off onto the floor. Sherlock leaned down and captured John’s mouth in a long, lingering kiss. After he came up for air, he kissed his way down John’s neck as he loosened the apron strings.

 

Sherlock murmured, “What do you say to continuing your cooking later, after you take me into the bedroom and show me how  _nice_  you can be to me?”

 

“Oh  _god_ yes!” John untangled himself from Sherlock’s arms, scrambled to turn the heat off on the hob, and hustled to Sherlock’s room. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the apron was still dangling from around his neck.

 

Sherlock smirked. He followed John at a much more sedate pace, casually divesting himself of his coat and scarf as he strolled through the sitting room. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager; John needed to work for it a little bit.

 

“Sherlock! Hurry up, I’m totally naked now. Come and get it!”

 

Sherlock grinned.

 

And the stereo continued to play:

 

 

_He’s making a list_

_He’s checking it twice_

_He’s gonna find out_

_Who’s naughty and nice_

 

_Santa Claus is comin’ to town_

 

 

 


	7. The Nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost went with a racy, innuendo-laden ficlet for this one. It started out something like this:
> 
>  
> 
> _“I’m going to jingle your bells”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“And I’m going to crack your nuts.”_
> 
>  
> 
> _“Oh, you’re a nutcracker now, are you?”_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Alas, for better or for worse my muse would not cooperate. So I give you this instead.
> 
>  
> 
> I should probably also state that I literally know nothing about how orchestras operate, so take the bit about Sherlock filling in as a player with a grain of salt. I can always come back to it and change it up later, but this is what I came up with to fill the prompt in a hurry.

 

 

John stood at the end of the sofa, next to Sherlock’s head, fidgeting soundlessly. He held an unsealed envelope with the name “Sherlock” scrawled across the front. He kept turning it over and over again in his hands, like a nervous habit. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin. His breaths were slow and even, but John knew that he was awake. Nothing escaped the detective’s notice, after all.

 

“Just come out with it, John,” Sherlock sighed, making John jump. “I know there’s something you want to say, and for some reason it’s making you anxious.” He abruptly sat up, swinging his legs down to the floor. He clasped his hands in front of him and eyed John expectantly.

 

“Well?”

 

John swallowed. He moved over until he was standing directly in front of Sherlock, only the coffee table between them. He cleared his throat. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

 

“Oh for God’s sake. Spit it out!”

 

John’s eyes darted around, landing everywhere but Sherlock’s face. “I - well - I know that Christmas isn’t for another two weeks, but I needed to give this to you now, because, well, the performance is _before_ Christmas, you see, and I - “

 

“John.”

 

John’s mouth snapped shut and his eyes finally met Sherlock’s. Sherlock held out his hand and waited, one eyebrow raised.

 

John placed the envelope in Sherlock’s hand, and stepped back. He crossed his arms defensively as Sherlock reached in and plucked out two tickets.

 

“I know it might seem childish, I mean, ‘The Nutcracker’, right? But I remembered you saying how you loved to dance, and I don’t even know what _kind_ of dancing you meant, but I knew for sure that you would enjoy the orchestra, if nothing else, and I just - “

 

“John.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Sherlock blinked up at him. “These are tickets to a performance of ‘The Nutcracker’.”

 

“Yes, well spotted. Two because - well, the idea is for you to take whoever you want of course, although I was hoping it would be me because, well, I’m not normally a theatre type of guy, but - “

 

“John, do shut up.”

 

John shut up.

 

“As it so happens, I have an early Christmas gift for you as well.”

 

John blinked. “You do?”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock laid the tickets down on the coffee table. He stood up and walked over to the mantel, picking up his skull to reveal that it had been serving as a paperweight for ---- one ticket. Sherlock turned around and, with a flourish, presented it to John.

 

“Merry Christmas, John.”

 

John smiled. He tilted his head questioningly. He took the ticket -- and did a double take.

 

“Sherlock - this is _also_ for The Nutcracker”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Albeit for a different night than the ones you got for me.”

 

“But -- there’s only one of them.”

 

“Yes.” Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. “That’s because I will be unable to attend that particular performance with you.”

 

“What? Why not??”

 

Sherlock dipped his head, and a crimson stain slowly rose up his neck. “Because for the first few shows, I will be functioning as the concertmaster. I got that ticket for you because I thought you might enjoy watching me perform.”

 

John’s jaw dropped.  “You - you _what?”_

 

Sherlock suddenly looked uncertain. “Not good?”

 

“No, it’s - _very_ good, I just - since when do you play for the London Symphony Orchestra??”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I haven’t for several years. Their current concertmaster is having unexpected medical problems, and for some reason they thought of me as a stand-in. Only for the first five nights, though; then she’ll be back.”

 

John smiled softly. “You never cease to amaze me, you know that? I’d be honoured to hear you in a live performance, Sherlock; thank you. Only… am I going to have to go by myself, then?”

 

“Er… actually, no. I bought my parents tickets as well, so you’ll be sitting with them.”

 

John grinned. “Excellent!” Then he frowned. “But what about the tickets I got for you? Are they going to be refundable?”

 

Sherlock smiled. “Actually, that’s the best part.” He stepped over to the coffee table and picked up his tickets. “If you’ll notice, the dates you purchased these for are later; the regular concertmaster will be back by then. So I’ll have the privilege of both listening to her perform live, and of being able to attend it with _you_. She’s the best to come along in many a  year.”

 

Sherlock stopped, an uncertain expression crossing his face. “Unless, of course, you’d rather not sit through it twice - “

 

John stepped forward and pressed a finger to Sherlock’s lips. He shook his head. “I’d be delighted to go twice: once with your parents to hear you play, and once on a date, with you.”

 

Sherlock blinked. John removed his finger, and Sherlock said, “A date?”

 

“If that’s alright with you?”

  
  
Sherlock grinned. “It’s _brilliant!”_

 

 


	8. Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The headcanon for this prompt was kindly provided by Besina. She suggested Sherlock trying to make something nice for John, but getting distracted by certain ‘thoughts’, resulting in - well, you’ll see! I loved her idea and told her I was going to steal it, and she told me to go for it. So thank you, Besina! Also, she used the word ‘smooch’ in describing her idea, so I blatantly stole that as well. Enjoy!

 

 

Sherlock was determined that this batch of biscuits was going to be _perfect._ He knew from stories that Harry had told him that John _loved_ traditional Christmas biscuits, cut into various shapes and frosted with coloured icing. He could have just popped off to the shops and bought a tin of them, he supposed, but he wanted to add his own personal touch. The first two batches he had made had turned out just a tad too crunchy for his tastes. They didn’t meet his standards as pertaining to a gift for John, but they were certainly good enough to give to Mrs Hudson, so that’s what he had done. Her reaction had been a bit over the top, he thought; it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to be thoughtful (or to use the kitchen for its intended purpose) when the situation warranted it.

 

At any rate, he was a perfectionist, so the biscuits must be perfect. Third time’s a charm, and all that, so this would be the last batch he needed to make. Obviously. John would like them, because they were going to be perfect. They would be so perfect, and John would be so overcome with gratitude, that he might even smooch Sherlock. With his perfect lips. His perfect, ruby red lips which he would lick the icing off of with his perfect pink tongue. He did other nice things with his lips and tongue too. Sherlock could attest to that, from personal experience. John had done a lot of things to Sherlock with his lips and tongue, but Sherlock’s favourite thing was the snogging. Sherlock had never snogged anyone before John came along. Was John getting bored with all the snogging, and wishing they could move on to something more? Maybe he would be amenable to ---

 

“ ** _SHERLOCK!”_**

 

Sherlock was jerked out of his mind palace to find himself being dragged by the wrist, down the stairs and out into the grey, chilly afternoon. Sound came rushing back with a vengeance as the smoke alarm joined forces with the sirens of the fire brigade. Sherlock blinked. One minute he had been kissing John, and now - what was _happening?_

 

Sherlock looked down at himself. He was wearing a red apron that was caked with white flour, and his right hand was clad in a bright orange oven mitt.

 

Oh. Right. He had been baking biscuits for John, hadn’t he? He must have got distracted with thoughts of John and then -

 

_Damn._

  

That…. hadn’t gone quite according to plan, had it?

 

“...... the _hell_ were you thinking?? You could have burnt to a crisp or died of smoke inhalation if I hadn’t come home when I did! One of these days you’re going to get yourself killed, and then where will I be? You’ve got to stop zoning out like that, Sherlock, or something worse than a smoky flat and burnt cookies is going to happen.”

 

Sherlock startled. He turned to face the person speaking.

 

“John?”

 

John Watson’s face went immediately from grave concern to amusement. He chuckled as he reached out and fondly rubbed Sherlock’s cheek. “You’ve got some flour there, on your face.”

 

“Oh,” Sherlock intelligently replied.

 

“There’s no permanent damage, I don’t think; I called the fire department just as a precaution. Although Mrs Hudson will probably raise our rent for the foreseeable future, I’m thinking.”

 

Sherlock lowered his eyes. He felt his mouth give an involuntary twitch, and he tried mightily to school his expression. Then he heard John let out a soft huff of laughter, and he was lost. He started chuckling, which led to John’s high-pitched giggles, and then they were leaning against each other, supporting each other as they gave in to belly laughs that left them with aching stomachs.

 

As the warmth of their shared hilarity faded, Sherlock started to feel the bite of the winter air. He shivered and wrapped his arms around himself, oven mitt and all. They turned as one to face their flat.

 

“They should be able to let you in to get  your coat here pretty soon,” John said. “Then I’m thinking a nice hot meal at Angelo’s before we tackle the aftermath of your little foray into baking.” John smiled to take the sting out of his words.

 

“So you were trying to bake me Christmas biscuits, eh? Harry put you up to that?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “She was just telling me anecdotes from your childhood, and I thought it would be nice to help recreate some of that for you this year. That’s all.”

 

John’s expression grew soft and fond. “Tell you what. In lieu of Christmas biscuits, why don’t you give me kisses instead?”

 

“Hershey’s kisses? Do you prefer white or milk chocolate? With nuts or without? Do you - “

 

“Not those kind of kisses, Sherlock.” John leaned forward and initiated the sweetest, most luscious-tasting kiss on Sherlock’s chilled lips. They wrapped their arms around each other as the kiss became more and more heated. At the rate his blood was warming up, Sherlock wouldn’t need his coat after all.

 

When John finally stepped back, Sherlock blinked several times in rapid succession.

 

John laughed. “Did my kisses freeze your hard drive, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock huffed. “Well, I don’t have anything to compare them to, do I? Of course _yours_ are going to seem like - like - “

 

“The best kisses in the entirety of creation?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, John; exactly that.”

 

John grinned. John’s grins were almost as brilliant as his kisses. He clapped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

 

“Let’s go see if we’re needed for anything before we grab your coat and head over to Angelo’s. It’s been a long day already, and I’m starving.”

 

Sherlock nodded, then joined John in heading towards their flat. He was already lost in thought. He knew now that he was in big trouble. If he could be derailed from something as simple as _baking cookies_ with thoughts of John Watson’s kisses…. well. That didn’t bode well. Not at all.

 

He just hoped that this - _problem -_ wouldn’t manifest when he was trying to deduce a crime scene. Because _that_ would be an unmitigated disaster.

 

Sherlock shuddered at the thought.

 

 

 

 


	9. Making a Christmas List

 

 

**The Christmas List of Mycroft Holmes, age 7:**

1\. Grandma’s fruitcake

2\. A globe of the entire world

3\. The book  _Treasure Island_

4\. A bicycle without training wheels

5\. A little brother

 

 

**The Christmas list of Sherlock Holmes, age 7:**

1\. A pirate hat

2\. A real microscope

3\. A grownup chemistry set

4\. A puppy

5\. A real friend

 

 

* * *

 

 

**The Christmas List of Mycroft Holmes, age 37:**

1\. Crystal decanter

2\. _The Silmarillion_ , First Edition

3\. The Complete Works of Philip Glass

4\. Umbrella with mother-of-pearl handle

5\. for Sherlock to remain sober during Christmas dinner with Mummy and Dad

 

**The Christmas List of Sherlock Holmes, age 37:**

1\. Macadamia nuts

2\. Mrs Hudson’s mince pie

3\. Magnussen stripped of power

4\. Mary Watson safe

5\. For John Watson to choose me, and move back to Baker Street

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**The Christmas List of one John Hamish Watson, age 50:**

1\. For Sherlock to say yes.

 

 


	10. Scrooge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep falling more and more behind with these. Ah well, tis the season.

 

 

Sherlock scowled at his reflection above the fireplace. He didn’t know why he was bothering with his appearance at all; he certainly wasn’t trying to impress anybody. The only person he would care to impress wasn’t going to be there anyway. So why was  _he_  going, again?

 

To make Lestrade happy, of course. Well, that wasn’t quite true. To stop Lestrade calling and nagging at him to come, that’s why. He would only have to endure the agony for a couple hours while he ate free food and drank free alcohol. Then he could come back home and wallow in his misery for the rest of the holiday - alone, just as he liked it.

 

“C’mon, Sherlock, don’t be such a Scrooge,” Lestrade had cajoled the last time he had called. “John tells me you haven’t stepped out of the flat in two weeks, something about there not being anything over a ‘4’, whatever that means. It’ll be fun; you can deduce all the affairs, maybe ruin the holiday for someone other than me for a change.”

 

Sherlock grumbled, “You’re being awfully persistent, Inspector.” He narrowed his eyes. “Did my brother put you up to this? Did he mention something about ‘danger nights’ and ask you to keep an eye on me to make sure I don’t slip?”

 

“What? No! Jesus, Sherlock. I’m inviting you because you have friends down here at the Yard who would love to see you. Who knows, you might just have a good time.”

 

Sherlock had felt suitably chastised after that, and relented with his usual grace.

 

“Fine. What time?”

 

“Great! Party starts at 7, will probably wind down sometime around 11. Just pop on in anytime in between.”

 

So that was how, on the Saturday before Christmas, Sherlock found himself preparing to attend the annual New Scotland Yard Christmas party.

 

_Bah, humbug._

 

***

 

It had been six months since Mary had left with the baby that wasn’t John’s, and John  _still_  hadn’t moved back into Baker Street. Sherlock didn’t understand what the problem was; it made perfect sense. Baker Street was closer than his current residence to both John’s surgery and to Scotland Yard. Plus it would just be convenient having John available whenever Sherlock needed him, for whatever reason.

 

John wasn’t even coming over for Christmas; he was spending the holidays with Harry and her girlfriend. Sherlock felt a stab of hurt at that thought. John wasn’t particularly close to either of them, and Sherlock didn’t understand why he bothered. Sherlock himself wasn’t lacking in invites, of course. He had been invited to spend Christmas Day with his parents and Mycroft, but he had declined, as he had done for most of his adult life. Mrs Hudson had asked him to come along with her to her sister’s. Even Molly and Lestrade had told him that he was more than welcome to join them at theirs.

 

No, there was only one person Sherlock desired to celebrate with. If that person wasn’t available, then he much preferred to be left alone.

 

He would attend this one party, and that was it.

 

Sherlock donned his coat, wrapped his scarf around his neck and tugged on his gloves. He turned around before he left, and gazed upon the flat.  _His_  flat. Just his. Several decorations adorned it, courtesy of Mrs Hudson, giving the superficial appearance of festivity and cheer. A small tree perched on one of the end tables, wrapped in flickering lights. Tinsel adorned the mantel. A Santa hat sat perched on top of the skull. Fairy lights surrounded the window that looked out onto Baker Street.

 

The silence mocked him as the feeling of  _absence_ permeated the air.

 

Sherlock opened the door and headed out into battle.

 

 

****

 

 

Sherlock grimaced as the strains to  _Have a holly jolly Christmas_ assaulted his ears. He grimaced again when he saw Anderson striding towards him, hand outstretched and a goofy grin on his face.

 

“Sherlock! The boss said he didn’t know if you would make it or not.” Anderson grabbed his hand and pumped it vigorously. “How have things been, buddy?” He winked at Sherlock in a frankly horrifying manner, bumping shoulders with him as if they were best mates. He looked around quickly before leaning in and whispering, “Have you heard about Sally and the new Sergeant, Hopkins? I mean, I wish her well and all, but maybe don’t seem so obvious…..”

 

Sherlock sighed. If only his  _actual_  best mate were here, this thing would be so much more bearable. He smiled his fake smile, nodded in all the right places, responded when required, when all the while his internal voice was screaming  _Tedious!_

 

After what seemed an eternity, Anderson moved on to greet the new Chief Superintendent, leaving Sherlock free to wander over to the food and drinks table. His eye wandered over the selection. Not a bad spread, considering it was Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be doing anything to arouse his practically nonexistent appetite. The only other thing that would make this bearable was alcohol. None of the beverages sitting out appealed to him, so he walked on over to the open bar.

 

“Scotch, neat,” he ordered, not even looking at the bartender. He tilted his body outwards, fingers drumming the counter and eyes scanning the room. He didn’t feel impatient; he was just restless and bored. If they would just play some decent Christmas music, that would go a long way to soothing his nerves. The rot they were playing now was just -

 

“Well, if it isn’t the Freak himself. Fancy seeing you here; I thought you were being all Mister Anti-Social.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He turned his head, and met the brown, twinkling eyes of Sally Donovan. Her words lacked their usual bite, and she was actually  _smiling_  at him.

 

“Sally! I…. didn’t know you were serving.”

 

“Yes, I do have some skills beyond police work, believe it or not. I used to bartend for some extra cash during my uni years. And here you are, one scotch neat.”

 

“Thank you.” He stood there awkwardly, drink in hand. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle a talkative Donovan. Should he linger and make conversation? Should he move on and….  _mingle?_

 

“So where’s your shadow?” Sally asked.

 

“My… shadow?”

 

“Yeah, you know. Your doctor fella. Watson.”

 

“Oh. He’s not here tonight. He’s at his sister’s for the holidays.”

 

“Oh.” Sally frowned. “It’s just that I thought Greg said he was going to - “ She clicked her jaw shut.

 

“What?”

 

“Never mind.”

 

A tap on Sherlock’s shoulder made him turn around in irritation…. only to be faced with a shyly smiling John Watson.

 

“Hello, stranger.” John saluted him with a bottle of Guinness.

 

“John! You - I thought that you - “

 

“Yeah, I lied. Well, not really lied…. misled. I did spend Christmas at Harry’s, but it was an early Christmas because they’re flying to the Continent tomorrow.” John looked down and shuffled his feet. He looked back up tentatively. “I was counting on the invitation still standing for Christmas at Baker Street…. and also for the whole moving back in thing.”

 

Joy bloomed in Sherlock’s chest. “So this was all to surprise me? Like, a surprise Christmas gift?”

 

John laughed. “Christmas gifts are  _supposed_ to be a surprise, Sherlock; and yes. I was beginning to wonder, though, if Greg was just having me on. It’s half nine already, and I’ve been waiting since 7 for you to show up!”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Greg? You were in cahoots with  _Lestrade??_ ”

 

John smiled. “Yep! He was to make sure you showed up tonight.”

 

“I thought he had seemed suspiciously invested in my attendance. At first I thought he was following my brother’s orders to keep me engaged.” He spat out the last work like it was a curse.

 

“Then I realised that he does actually consider me a friend.”

 

John’s eyes softened. “Of course he does. We all do. Don’t we, Sal?”

 

Sherlock startled. He had forgotten that they were still standing at the bar, in the presence of Donovan.

 

“Sure, if you say so, Doc,” Sally replied. She smiled as she turned to serve the next person.

 

John and Sherlock stepped away from the bar, drinks in hand. They wandered over to an isolated part of the room where they could have a bit more privacy.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat. “So,” he said, “when did you decide that…. you wanted to move back in?”

 

John had a thoughtful look on his face as he chose his words carefully. “Well, you had stopped asking about a month ago. Then I started asking myself why I was hesitating. I mean, we both knew that I was going to eventually, so why was I putting it off? After I thought about it for a while, I arrived at the heart of the matter. And I decided that regardless, it was worth the risk. At the very least, we would just slot back into our previous lives and carry on as if the past four years had never happened.”

 

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Regardless of what?”

 

John reached out and clasped Sherlock’s hand with his own, threading their fingers together. Sherlock looked down at their joined hands in shock. He locked eyes with John; what he saw there was not trepidation, but calm certainty. John smiled at him, and squeezed his hand.

 

“Alright?” John asked softly.

 

Understanding shot through Sherlock’s brain. John had put off moving back in because he was no longer able to hide his growing attraction, and he was afraid that it wouldn’t be welcome, or even tolerated, by Sherlock. Even so, John had decided to trust in their friendship; that whether or not John’s feelings were reciprocated, his heart would be safe in Sherlock’s hands.

 

“Um… yes. Alright. Good.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand in return, and gave a tentative smile. Hope unfurled like a long-lost friend in his chest, warmth radiating through his whole body to his outer extremities. The hand that held John’s seemed to tingle with an unfamiliar and yet pleasant sensation. Sherlock was high, and he hadn’t even taken anything save a few sips of scotch.

 

Almost as if a switch had been flicked, Sherlock’s appetite returned with a vengeance. Suddenly, he was  _ravenous_.

 

He leaned down and whispered in John’s ear, “Fancy some food? If you watch my drink, I’ll get us some plates.”

 

John gave a small shiver. “Yeah, food’s good. You know what I like. Here, I’ll hold your scotch.” He released Sherlock’s hand.

 

Sherlock heard a completely different meaning couched in those words  _you know what I like_ \- an invitation of sorts, or an offering. The thing was, Sherlock really  _didn’t_  know what John liked in that regard. He smiled to himself. But he was more than ready - eager, in fact - to find out.

 

Sherlock handed John his drink, letting his fingers caress his friend’s before he stepped away. He smiled a soft smile, then turned and strode away, intent on filling two plates with huge piles of food.

 

Against all expectations, this Christmas was turning out to be quite brilliant.

 

 

 


	11. Mulled Wine & Ugly Christmas Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wanted to be something other than Johnlock, so I give you Molly and Mrs Hudson. Also, since I can’t seem to catch up, I’m combining two prompts today: Mulled wine & Ugly Christmas jumpers. Therefore the chapter count is no longer 25.

 

 

Molly always enjoyed visiting Mrs Hudson. Not only was she a very interesting conversationalist, she was also a very good hostess. When one visited Mrs Hudson, one always came away with a stomach full of good food (usually scones) and a head full of interesting stories. Generally tea came with that as well.

  
  


But today, Martha handed Molly a tumbler of mulled wine. Molly closed her eyes as she let the aroma of cinnamon and oranges wash over her. She took a sip, letting it linger in her mouth and wash over her taste buds before swallowing. Breathing out a sigh of contentment, Molly opened her eyes and smiled.

  
  


“Lovely, Mrs Hudson. You seem to outdo yourself every year.”

  
  


“Well, one does what we can to ward off the chill, dear. It’s being said we’re going to have a white Christmas this year. Won’t that be lovely?”

  
  


Molly’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. I’ve always loved snow on Christmas Day.  We haven’t had one in years. It makes it seem that much more magical, doesn’t it?”

  
  


Mrs Hudson smiled at her over the rim of her glass, eyes twinkling. Her cheeks were a bit too flushed and her eyes a bit too bright for it being only her first glass, so Molly deduced that she had started indulging before Molly had arrived.

  
  


Molly huffed into her drink. Sherlock must be rubbing off on her after all these years. Not that he would be impressed at all.

  
  


Mrs Hudson narrowed her eyes. “Is that a new jumper? I’ve not seen you wear it before.”

  
  


Molly looked down at herself, and grimaced. It was an ugly thing, to be sure. She wasn’t sure why she had put in on this morning, to be honest, other than the fact that it fit her perfectly and was ever so comfortable. The bright red colour served as a background for a large round ornament made of glittering gold yarn. The effect was rather garish, and didn’t really do any favours for her skin tone.

  
  


“Oh, this old thing?” She laughed. “Actually, this was last year’s Christmas gift from Tom. You remember Tom? I used to date him?”

  
  


“Oh, yes.” Mrs Hudson pursed her lips as her eyes flicked over the atrocity. “Goodness, he didn’t really know you very well at all, did he? If I’m allowed to say so, dear, I really do think you’re better off without him.”

  
  


Molly nodded, but gave a little internal sigh. She didn’t really care for it when people made less than positive statements about Tom. He was a good man, and had never been anything less than kind and solicitous towards her. But Mrs Hudson was right; he really hadn’t paid much attention to her tastes and preferences.

  
  


“Oh! But these suit you to a tee.” Mrs Hudson reached out and brushed her fingers against Molly’s left ear, which sported an onyx teardrop earring containing a tiny diamond. Its twin dangled from her other ear.

  
  


Molly blushed, her hand instinctively reaching up to touch the jewelry. “Oh, thank you! These are - were an early Christmas gift. From this year, obviously.”

  
  


Mrs Hudson clapped her hands, a wide grin breaking out on her face. “Oh, Molly! Were those from that nice policeman? Are you two getting serious?”

  
  


“Well, it’s early days yet. We’ve only been seeing each for a couple of months. But it’s been good! Really good. I almost can’t believe it sometimes.” Molly stared into her wine. “I hope it lasts.”

  
  


“Well, dear, if you don’t mind me saying so, that’s entirely up to you. The way he looks at you, as if the sun rises and sets with you - I don’t think you have anything to worry about, love.” Mrs Hudson patted her knee. She lifted her eyebrow and gave her a knowing look.

  
  


“And the types of gifts men choose to give their lady friends during the holidays - that says a lot about how they think of them. And your Inspector,” she winked, “knows class when he sees it. Those earrings are understated and elegant - just like you.”

  
  


To Molly’s horror, tears sprang in her eyes unbidden. She blinked them back before they fell. She wasn’t used to people saying things like that to her, not since her dad had passed several years ago. Mrs Hudson was surely being sincere, since she wasn’t the type to say such things if they weren’t true. That’s one thing she and Sherlock had in common: speaking the truth no matter how harsh or unforgiving it might be. Greg said nice things to her too, on a daily basis. Maybe one of these days she would start to believe people when they complimented her.

  
  


She clasped Mrs Hudson’s hand gratefully. “Thank you,” she said, with a tremulous smile.

  
  


“Don’t you dare let this one go, Miss Hooper. I fully expect to be invited to the wedding.”

  
  


Molly laughed. “You’ll get a front row seat, I promise,” she joked.

  
  


She wiped her eyes, picked up her wine, and settled in to enjoy this remarkable woman’s company.  In several hours, she would change into the black dress she had brought with her, the same one she had worn to that very first Baker Street Christmas. Sherlock and John would come downstairs to join them, violin in tow. Greg would arrive with a bottle of Merlot. And lucky woman that she was, she would be surrounded by the people she loved most in all the world.

  
  


Not much had changed since then, and yet everything had. This time, John didn’t have to bring in a date from the outside world. And instead of Christmas morning finding her in the morgue standing over a dead woman’s body, she would wake up in the arms of a good man who thought the world of her.

  
  


A woman couldn’t get any luckier than that.

 


	12. Warming up by the Fire & Trimming the Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combining two prompts again today: Warming up by the fire and Trimming the Tree.
> 
> This chapter also earns the "Mature" rating. When I write Johnlock, I normally go for the fade-to-black scenario. For this one I went a little beyond that, stretching a bit beyond my comfort zone. I hope it works. Enjoy! **Sexytimes in front of a fireplace**

 

 

They had made a party out of it – Sherlock, John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly. The tree had been delivered with a minimum of fuss; the stately, six-foot tall fir had been efficiently set up in the sitting room, in the corner between the fireplace and the window facing Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had brought out the mulled wine and two large boxes of ornaments. Christmas music filled the flat courtesy of iTunes on John’s laptop.

 

They were all pleasantly buzzed even before they started in on the decorating. With all five of them involved, it shouldn’t have taken very long before the tree was properly adorned with festive attire: hand painted wooden ornaments intermingled with precious family heirlooms, silver garland winding its way through the branches from top to bottom, blue fairy lights to set everything off nicely - and Sherlock’s skull perched on the very top in lieu of the gold star that had broken last year.

 

However, against all logic, it was the work of two whole hours. Everything was unhurried and lovely, a bit blurred around the edges, as ornaments were sorted, lights untangled, and drinks nursed. Conversation jumped in a desultory fashion from topic to topic. Frequent breaks were taken to wander into the kitchen and crack open some nuts for refreshment. Sherlock even got his violin out and performed a couple of songs.

 

And amazingly enough, Sherlock didn’t get bored or impatient at all, nor did he complain once.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

That night, Sherlock and John made love in front of a softly glowing fire, on a nest of duvets and pillows that had been arranged on the floor. They moved slowly against each other, all soft sighs and tangled limbs, their bodies casting shadows from the light of the full moon streaming through the window. The blue lights blinking on the tree lent an unearthly, surreal quality to the scene.

 

“Sherlock.” John arched his back, fingers clutched in inky curls. Sherlock hummed sounds of encouragement as he peppered John’s jaw and neck with kisses. He stroked the inside of John’s thigh with feather-light touches, teasing and promising at the same time. John’s breath hitched, legs falling open to grant Sherlock better access.

 

“Sherlock –  oh – touch me, touch me more…”

 

“I _am_ touching you,” Sherlock whispered. He moved down John’s chest, flicking a nipple with his tongue. John let out an obscene moan. He thrust up involuntarily, seeking more contact. Sherlock responded in kind; their cocks slid against each other, the sensation pure bliss. Sparks formed behind Sherlock’s eyes. He had never known such pleasure before.

 

John shuddered, his grip on Sherlock’s hair tightening.

 

_“Oh_ … you feel so good, Sherlock, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop, I never want this to end…”

 

Sherlock loved it when John spoke during sex; the sound of his voice always served to kick Sherlock’s arousal up a notch or three. His own voice did the same to John, he knew, but the intent here was to prolong things, not hurry them along. So he tamped down on his instinct to pitch his voice low in a sexy rumble, as was his usual wont.

 

Instead, he spoke not at all. He pulled back just enough to bank the desire a little, to keep John wanting more. Sure enough, John whimpered at the loss.

 

“Shhhh,” Sherlock soothed. He reached down and trailed his hand up John’s leg until he just barely brushed up against John’s cock, before skittering across his pelvis and down the other leg. John’s face in the flickering firelight was gorgeous, his eyes closed and mouth slack with pleasure. Sherlock could look at him forever like this, hovering on the edge.

 

Sherlock kept them there on the plateau, for ages. Each time Sherlock felt his orgasm cresting, he pulled back until it subsided, taking John along with him. They panted into each other’s mouths, not so much kissing as just breathing each other’s air.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Sherlock took John in hand and stroked, stroked, stroked until John cried out, back arching off the floor as wave after wave of his climax pulsed through him. Sherlock held him through the aftershocks, until he grew still and pliant. Only then did Sherlock finish himself off; he thrust against his lover once, twice, three times - and then he was coming with the word  _John_  on his lips.

 

Several minutes later, Sherlock reached over for the flannel he had brought out of the bedroom. He gently cleaned himself and a gently snoring John. He stood up in all his naked glory on shaky legs, and strode over to the fireplace. The fire had died down to gently smoldering embers; he took care banking it, using ash from the bucket that sat on the hearth. Usually John was the one who remembered to do this, but he was out of commission at the moment. Sherlock was ridiculously proud of himself for thinking of it.

 

After the fireplace screen was safely slid into place, Sherlock crawled back next to John, pulling a duvet up over them both. He snuggled close and buried his nose in John’s hair, breathing in his scent and luxuriating in his warmth. John hummed in his sleep, unconsciously leaning into the embrace.

 

A burst of joy spread through Sherlock’s chest. At this moment, everything was perfect. Absolutely  _perfect_.  He was getting used to this feeling, as it kept happening more and more lately. He hoped it would continue to happen.

 

He fell asleep with a smile lingering on his face.

 

 


	13. Christmas Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is just a little 221b ficlet. Enjoy!

 

 

The annual Baker Street Christmas party was in full swing, but the hosts were conspicuously absent from the festivities. Or maybe not so conspicuously. The guests seemed to be fending for themselves just fine. There were plenty of refreshments and beverages available, enough to keep everyone satisfied for a few hours. Everyone was paired off this year, so there was no need to keep anyone entertained. Conversation flowed freely between them, frequently punctuated by bursts of laughter.  Fairy lights twinkled merrily on the tree, as well as other places scattered throughout the flat.

 

Inside the bedroom, the atmosphere was markedly different. The door was closed, shutting out the sounds of revelry. The only illumination was the light of the full moon streaming through the window. Soft music played from the laptop that was sitting on the bedside table. Two shapes moved across the floor in synchronicity, swaying and bobbing. The taller one was clearly in charge, the smaller one following wherever he led. The bed had been pushed against the wall to provide more room for their dance.

 

If there had been enough light to see, an observer would have noticed the way the two looked at each other, and would have been able to put a name to the expression. Adoration. Devotion. Reverence.  _Love._

 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson: Inseparable. Inevitable. Forever bonded.

 


	14. Family Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one was also supposed to be a 221b ficlet. However, it had a mind of its own instead. Enjoy!

 

“It’s a tradition,” Sherlock explained. He could feel his face heating up. His leg was starting to cramp, but he wasn’t going to lose face by rising just yet. Had he miscalculated? He had thought that this was the next logical step in the progression of their relationship, but maybe he had once again got it wrong. He did that so often, after all.

 

John had been staring at him now for several minutes as if he hadn’t understood the question. Hence Sherlock’s explanation. They were of a height like this, John sitting in his armchair and Sherlock kneeling in front of him on one knee. Sherlock had one hand placed on John’s armrest, while the other held a black velvet box extended like an offering. Inside that box was a shiny platinum ring, unadorned yet perfect. Just like John.

 

John blinked. When he finally opened his mouth, the words came out with a squeak. “ _What’s_  a tradition?”

 

“Proposing. On Christmas night. My parents did it, and my mother’s parents before them. The idea being that, by that time, all the gifts have been exchanged and a jolly time had by all. So when the proposal comes, it will be completely unexpected, the icing added onto the cake of an already perfect day. And if the proposal is rejected, then the entire holiday won’t have been ruined because of it.”

 

“How very logical,” John said dryly. “So your Mum’s the one that proposed, then? To your Dad? Given that it’s  _her_  family that has this tradition?”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Yes. Why, is that unusual?”

 

John smiled. “Well, it’s not  _traditional_.”

 

Sherlock sniffed. “It’s a  _Holmes_ tradition. Well, rather, a  _Vernet_  tradition, if you want to get technical. Mummy was an only child, so it was up to her to continue it.”

 

“I see.” John hid a grin behind his hand.

 

“Don’t laugh at me, John!” Sherlock made to get up. “If your answer’s no, then - “

 

“Sherlock.” John reached out and touched Sherlock’s knee. “Stay where you are. My answer’s not no.” He cupped Sherlock’s cheek, and leaned just that little bit forward to kiss him quite thoroughly. When he pulled back, the smile on Sherlock’s face was brilliant.

 

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, you bloody great git.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> These have also been posted on my tumblr. Feel free to check it out at pipmer.tumblr.com.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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